Page 27 of Rich Little Liars

I watch the screen, waiting, my heart pounding.

Three dots appear. He’s typing.

Then his response comes.

On my way.

10

NOW

Richard arrives within ten minutes, which means he must have left his house the moment he sent that text. I’m still sitting on the floor when I hear his knock – gentle, not demanding. The sort of knock that says I’m here if you want me, but I won’t force my way in.

I pull myself up and check my reflection in the hall mirror. I look exactly how I feel: wrecked. There’s no hiding it now. No pretending I’ve just been busy or tired or any of the other lies I’ve been telling myself.

When I open the door, his expression shifts immediately. Concern bleeding into something sharper. Almost fear.

‘Christ, Kelly.’

‘I know. I look terrible.’

‘That’s not—’ He stops himself. ‘Can I come in?’

I step back and he enters, closing the door behind him. I watch him take in the hallway. The lights all blazing even though it’s barely evening. The way I immediately reach out and test the door lock, making sure it’s secure now that he’s inside.

‘How long since you’ve slept?’ he asks quietly.

‘I don’t know. Two days? Three?’

He nods like this confirms something he suspected. Then he does something unexpected. He pulls me into a hug. Not gentle or tentative, but firm. Solid. Like he’s trying to hold me together through physical pressure alone.

I don’t realise I’m crying until I feel the dampness spreading across his shirt.

‘It’s okay,’ he murmurs. ‘Whatever this is, it’s okay. You’re okay.’

But I’m not okay. We both know it. I’m so far from okay I can’t even see it from here.

When I finally pull back, he keeps his hands on my shoulders. Anchoring me. His brown eyes are full of worry but no judgement. No suspicion. Just care that I don’t deserve.

‘Have you eaten anything today?’

I try to remember everything. ‘Not much.’

‘Right. Kitchen. Now.’

He steers me there and sits me at the table like I’m a child who needs supervision. Then he moves around my kitchen with more confidence than I do lately, opening cupboards and the fridge, assessing what’s available. He makes scrambled eggs and toast. Simple food that won’t upset an empty stomach. Sets it in front of me with a glass of water and doesn’t sit until I’ve taken the first bite.

The food tastes like nothing but I eat it anyway because he’s watching and because some part of me recognises that not eating is part of the spiral. That I need to start taking basic care of myself if I want to get through this.

‘Better?’ he asks when I’ve finished half the plate.

‘A bit.’

‘Good.’ He leans back in his chair, studying me. ‘Now tell me what’s really going on. And before you say it’s nothing or you’re fine, don’t. I can see you’re not fine.’

I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. The exhaustion has stripped away my ability to lie convincingly. And maybe I’m just tired of lying. Tired of carrying everything alone.

‘I had… a note,’ I say finally.